


Come Morning Light

by SavioBriion



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: F/M, Family, Fantastic Racism, Fat Shaming, Female Character of Color, Female Friendship, Racism, TRSB 2020, Tolkien Reverse Summer Bang 2020, fatphobia
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-13
Updated: 2020-09-18
Packaged: 2021-03-06 14:35:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,646
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26440519
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SavioBriion/pseuds/SavioBriion
Summary: TRSB 2020 collaboration - fic by SavioBriion, art by Rogercat.After the battle comes the recovery.Lothíriel is reunited with her father and brothers in Minas Tirith, gains responsibilities, makes new friends, and meets Éomer of Rohan.
Relationships: Éomer Éadig/Lothíriel, Éowyn/Faramir (Son of Denethor II)
Comments: 21
Kudos: 27





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Rogercat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rogercat/gifts).



> Written for the Tolkien Reverse Summer Bang, for [this](https://www.deviantart.com/nelyasun/art/How-to-catch-a-King-852878180) artwork by [Rogercat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rogercat/pseuds/Rogercat). Huge thank-yous to [AislingRoisin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/JayBird345/pseuds/AislingRoisin) for beta-reading and for coming up with the title!
> 
> Banner image created by [AislingRoisin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/JayBird345/pseuds/AislingRoisin), text added by me.
> 
> To fit the artwork, in this fic Imrahil married a Haradrim noblewoman who is both brown-skinned and slightly plump. Lothíriel here is biracial, brown-skinned, and fat. Additionally, while she and her brothers speak Westron and Sindarin to others in Gondor, in private with their mother they speak a smattering of Haradaic. Tolkien didn’t give us much Haradaic, so I have taken liberties; Lothíriel and her brothers privately address their mother as _mawat_ , the ancient Egyptian word for mother. However, Nilaruna also uses Tamil endearments for them, as Tamil is my own mother tongue and I wanted to include it.

Éomer had seen very few Haradrim in his life, before the Battle of the Pelennor Fields. His memories of that desperate charge after finding Éowyn’s body were vague, but he did remember meeting Imrahil’s sons afterwards, and the moment of confusion; though decked out in the blue and silver of the Swan Knights, they were very nearly as dark as the Oliphaunt riders he had seen. Still, there had been other pressing concerns.

On the victorious ride back from the Morannon, Éomer learnt that Prince Imrahil’s wife was a noblewoman from one of the friendlier tribes of Near Harad, along the border of South Gondor, who had travelled to Pelargir and Belfalas as an ambassador and to oversee trade. Though old enough that the hair at his temples was beginning to streak silver, Imrahil still ducked his head and wore a soft smile as he described Princess Nilaruna, and bore his sons’ teasing with good grace.

Éomer took the chance to simply breathe, looking about him; the sun seemed to shine brighter and the air felt clearer, with the fall of Sauron, and it was beautiful and bittersweet; there were too many family members he would have wanted to share in this victory with him.

“And you, Éomer?” Amrothos asked, leaning over to nudge Éomer’s shoulder. “Have you a fair love waiting at Meduseld?”

“No,” he responded shortly. He _had_ tried, once or twice in the past, but they had – rightly – been frustrated at always coming second to his _éored_ and his duties to the Mark. And he had never felt the sort of deep love he remembered seeing in his parents, that he saw now in Imrahil and Elphir when they spoke of their wives.

“Who _is_ overseeing Meduseld and Rohan?” Amrothos continued, and Erchirion reached around Éomer’s suddenly stiff back to sharply nudge his younger brother with the haft of his spear.

“Ouch!” He paused. “I am sorry, Éomer, forgive my thoughtlessness.”

“It is forgotten.” Éomer thought again of his sister’s pale lifeless body upon the battlefield, when he had thought her safe at the Golden Hall, and squeezed his eyes shut for a moment. “Eadwaru, the head of the council under my un – under the King, was meant to assist Éowyn. I suppose he will be keeping watch in our absence, and his wife Cyneburg is royal housekeeper; in the absence of a queen or any women of the royal family, she runs Meduseld.”

The thought of returning to that dark hall with his uncle’s body and wounded Éowyn, of taking up a position he had never dreamed of until Théodred fell, was unbearable, and his knuckles were tight on his reins.

“Our mother and sister are ruling Dol Amroth,” Erchirion said quickly, and had his mood been less grim Éomer would have smiled at these fumbling princes, descended from Elves and yet so wholly unlike Legolas, diving desperately for a change in subject to lift his spirits. “I thought Elphir or I might stay behind, but Naneth only scoffed at us and said they could handle the Corsairs and Minas Tirith would need us all.”

“She sounds formidable indeed.”

“She is,” Imrahil rejoined the conversation. “But for her, our daughter Lothíriel might already be a widow. Denethor was pushing for us to marry her to Boromir.” A shadow passed over his fair features. “He never quite trusted Nilaruna, or Lothíriel. Or our boys either; he never liked to have them at court. But he was somehow convinced that Nila intended to use our daughter to forge an alliance with the more unsavoury Haradrim tribes and send the Swan Knights to Sauron.”

Éomer could not help but be disquieted at the idea of using a girl as a prize thus; he remembered how the Worm had looked at Éowyn. More than that, though, he thought he could sense more to their tale than they would openly say. He glanced around at the princes riding on either side of him; on his right, Amrothos had removed his helmet, and his hair fell about his shoulders in soft dark curls. He and Erchirion, on Éomer’s left, shared a certain softness to their features that had not left them despite their skill as soldiers, and they also shared their father’s grey eyes, which were even more piercing in their golden-brown faces, dark next to their father’s light.

“Because Nilaruna is Haradrim?” He stumbled a little over the unfamiliar name.

Imrahil smiled wryly. “Yes.”

“My grandmother was from Gondor,” Éomer offered. “Morwen Steelsheen, of Lossarnach. The court apparently mistrusted her greatly, but she soon proved herself and became very loved.”

“It is not quite the same,” Erchirion replied, “but thank you.”

* * *

In the royal study of Dol Amroth, Lothíriel leaned heavily against her mother, her mind whirling. A messenger had ridden in not an hour ago on a foam-flecked horse, bringing news of victory over the Shadow once and for all, and it was all almost unbelievable.

Her family was safe. Sauron was gone, and with him the darkness over Minas Tirith. The King had returned. It all felt like a dream or a fairy-tale, except for all that they had also lost.

“At least your father and brothers are all alive and unharmed,” her mother said softly, echoing her thoughts. “That is more than I could have hoped for.”

“And we are to go to Minas Tirith?”

“Yes, for the coronation, and we are to stay for a while afterwards.” Nilaruna rifled through the letters the messenger had brought, short notes from Imrahil, Elphir, and Faramir. “I wonder what sort of a man this Elessar is. Faramir seems to like him.” She took a deep breath, as if strengthening herself, and then she straightened, dislodging Lothíriel. “Well! We had better start getting ready. It has been a while since we have been to Minas Tirith, and we must prepare some sort of presentation fit for a king. Go and get your aunt Iviriniel, Hunith, and old Galion, and send them in, will you?”

As Lothíriel made to leave, her mother cupped her chin fondly. “Stay out of the sun for a while, _kannu_? And stop sneaking sweets from the kitchen.”

Lothíriel sighed. “Yes, _mawat_.”

* * *

Alone in her room, Lothíriel gazed out of the window for a long moment. The sun was just beginning to set, and the tide was still quite high; the sound of waves lapping against the rocks was as comforting to her as her mother’s lullabies, and she always missed it when in their townhouse in Minas Tirith. With the tide where it was, the air smelt of salty freshness instead of drying seaweed, and the gulls were wheeling and crying in the harbour further down the coast.

The door opened behind her and she could hear Elioril, her lady-in-waiting, directing others carrying what must be her trunk. The others left and Elioril came up behind her, laying a soft hand on her arm.

“What is it?”

Lothíriel chewed her lip for a moment as she tried to order her thoughts. “I am so relieved that Ada and my brothers are safe, and I miss them. I suppose I am happy the King has returned, but it has not sunk in yet and it feels so strange! Especially with -” she paused for a moment, “- with Uncle Denethor gone, and Boromir. And Ada says we are to stay there for a few months.”

“My father is very excited,” Elioril volunteered. “Almost everyone is. We have won a great victory, after all, and our Princes are alive, and we have a King! The whole palace is buzzing.” She hesitated a moment, then asked, “Princess, will I be accompanying you to Minas Tirith again?”

“Do you want to?”

“Yes!”

“Then of course you are.” At her friend’s beaming smile, Lothíriel could not help but smile in return. “I am glad you are so excited.”

“Might I ask why you aren’t? I thought you liked Minas Tirith well enough.”

Shrugging, Lothíriel turned to look at the sea once more. “I do like the _city_ well enough. It always feels like an adventure, setting off and coming to a city so different from Dol Amroth, and getting accustomed to those circles. But you know the court dislikes Naneth and me and I have no great love for them either, the snakes that they are. I am hardly the traditional picture of a princess, and they make it clear.”

Subdued, Elioril began laying out gowns, and Lothíriel felt churlish. “On the other hand, I am excited to see the Rohirrim,” she offered. “They saved us, and Ada and Elphir seem to like their King.”

“Two Kings at once! I don’t envy the people at Minas Tirith in charge of planning this whole affair, they won’t get a wink of sleep.”

With a smile at the idea of old Húrin in a frenzy, Lothíriel joined her in selecting gowns.

* * *


	2. Chapter 2

In Lothíriel’s mind, Minas Tirith had always been a grand city. Cold, to be sure, and stuffy – nothing like the openness of Dol Amroth with its sea breezes – but with a sense of nobility and history and enduring strength to it. It had maintained a watchful position on the Enemy’s borders for years, and yet had always felt safe.

To see it still recovering from the Enemy’s attack, with crumbled walls and wounded people, hurt Lothíriel more than she had expected. The steward who cared for their Minas Tirith townhouse and his wife had greeted them at the door with the strain of grief still visible in their faces, for both their sons had fallen in defence of the city, and everywhere there was grief and mourning mingled with relief and celebration; it left Nilaruna and Lothíriel feeling wrongfooted and wary, unsure of how to react.

Nilaruna was seated at their dining table, going over further correspondence from Imrahil. “Ada sends his love; he and your brothers are at some sort of ceremony out in Ithilien, to honour the _periain_ who destroyed the Enemy once and for all.”

Lothíriel shook her head. “The return of the King and shieldmaidens slaying the Witch-King and now _periain_ ; it really does feel as though I am in a fairy-tale! Can we not go and join them?”

“No, we would not arrive in time! But they shall be back tomorrow morning, he thinks. We shall have a family breakfast again.”

“And Ada has not said how long we will be here?”

Nilaruna laughed. “Thíri, we have only just gotten here. So eager to leave?”

“It is not that, _mawat_. I just do not like not knowing.”

Her mother smiled wryly. “Nor do I. But we have a King now; we must be prepared to dance to his whim, even more than Denethor.”

“ _You_ would not dance for any man’s whim.”

“Ha! No, but he would still expect me to.” Nilaruna shuffled her papers and rolled them up. “Now, I must see to the house, and no doubt those odious court ladies will be calling on us soon, eager to pay respects to their Princesses with a sneer. You had better go and clean up, and have Elioril find you a gown that is dark and makes you look slimmer.” Her gaze, as it rested on her daughter, was sad. “Remember, never give them any ammunition to use against you. We are already starting with disadvantages; don’t give them any more.”

The speech was familiar, but not comforting. “I know.”

* * *

Lothíriel woke, blinking slowly and frowning up at Elioril, who was shaking her awake, in the dim light of dawn. “What is it?”

“Your father and brothers have returned!”

The fog of sleep disappeared in an instant as Lothíriel leapt out of bed and threw a robe on over her nightgown before rushing out of the room and down to the sitting room, where she could indeed hear voices.

“Ada!”

“Lothíriel!” Imrahil let go of his wife and held his arms open, letting out a soft _oof_ as his daughter rushed into them. “My darling, I have missed you.”

Lothíriel held tightly to him, heedless of the fact that he was still in riding clothes and smelt vaguely of horse. “I am so glad you are safe.”

Nilaruna leaned against her husband, an arm around her daughter’s back. “We are blessed indeed; none of you were harmed.”

Imrahil kissed her cheek, and then the top of Lothíriel’s head. “Your brothers have just gone to wash, and I think to steal a nap before breakfast. And your mother was just telling me about the Corsair raids back home.”

“They barely got close enough to cause much harm; a few fishermen and pearl trawlers were attacked, but they are recovering and we have sponsored their ship repairs.” Lothíriel finally released him, inspecting him to make sure that he was not sporting any small injuries. Imrahil smiled indulgently, but then his mien became serious again.

“We cannot stay long; we must be back in Cormallen by afternoon. But the King gave us leave to come and visit, at least, and he has some requests to make of you. We’ll talk more over breakfast.” He kissed his daughter again. “Now go back to bed, and let me seek mine! I have been sleeping in tents for too long.”

* * *

A few hours later, the family began gathering in the dining room for a late breakfast. Lothíriel had barely set foot in the room before Amrothos grabbed her.

“Oof! I can no longer lift you, Thiri. Did you _eat_ the Corsairs?”

Lothíriel elbowed him, glaring. “I cannot believe I was worried about you!”

Elphir hugged her then, squeezing tightly. “Ignore him. I brought you some stones from the Morannon for your collection.”

“Thank you! You are the best brother.”

Erchirion tugged gently on her braid. “And what am I?” Laughing, he returned his sister’s hug. “You’ll have to tell us all about the Corsairs, and we can tell you about the Rohirrim!”

“Sit down and eat first,” Nilaruna cut in, smiling.

Over hot spiced tea, fresh fruits and spiced semolina porridge, Imrahil filled them in on the Ring, and the defeat of the Witch King, and the return of King Elessar.

“But he already came in and healed Éowyn. Why is he waiting to return?”

“There are many wounded, Thiri. Others were not so lucky as us. They lie recovering at Cormallen. And still others have ridden after some of the retreating Southron groups, and Elessar has commanded some to go into the north of Mordor to clear out their fortresses. It would hardly be fair to not wait for their return. And while we will come back for visits, we will continue to stay at the camp with him; accompanying him into the city is an important show of support from Dol Amroth.”

Lothíriel waved a hand impatiently. “No, I understand _that_. But why does the King not come back into Minas Tirith and wait here and then hold the coronation after all of that has been sorted out?”

Imrahil shrugged. “I have said as much to him. I think he wants to enter only after ensuring that there are no further threats, appearing as a triumphant King. He and Mithrandir have something in their heads, I think, and there is no arguing with a wizard about the proper way to do things. And speaking of the proper way to do things…” He reached over to press his wife’s hand. “Nila, I am sorry to ask this of you, but someone must help Húrin oversee preparations for the coronation, and the two of you are the highest-ranking women in Gondor. It would mean a great deal if the Princesses of Dol Amroth helped welcome the King.”

“I had a sense that this might happen,” Nilaruna replied, her full lips tugging into a wry smile. “Very well, we will see to it.”

“Thank you.” Imrahil raised her hand to his lips, pressing a kiss to it, and Lothíriel exchanged a small grin with Erchirion; as much as they teased their parents about their affection, it was good to see them together again. Then she remembered what she had just been volunteered for, and sobered. Planning parties was one thing, but an entire coronation?

* * *


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You may recognise a certain NPC and garden from The Lord of the Rings Online. :P
> 
> Beta-read by [AislingRoisin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/JayBird345/pseuds/AislingRoisin).
> 
> Art by [Rogercat/Nelyasun](https://www.deviantart.com/nelyasun/art/How-to-catch-a-King-852878180) is embedded in the text.

The next morning dawned crisp and golden, shining down on Lothíriel and her mother as they went up to the Tower of Ecthelion to meet with Faramir, only recently released from the Houses of Healing, and with Húrin. As the door came into view, Lothíriel shook slightly, her chest tightening. Boromir had always been larger than life in her memory, a tall, broad-shouldered warrior who always had time to swing her up onto his shoulders or take her for a ride on his warhorse and, when she was older, to help her practice archery; Gondor’s greatest defender, dead now somewhere in the wilds. Her steps flagged, not wanting to walk through the door and see the hall devoid of his presence and his kind smile; the news had seemed too shocking to process in Dol Amroth amidst everything else, but here amidst the white towers of Minas Tirith, so inextricably associated with her uncle and cousins in her mind, a sob burst from her throat. Her mother slung an arm around her shoulders, signing to the two Swan Knights accompanying them to slow down as Lothíriel turned to bury her face in Nilaruna’s shoulder.

After long moments, the door opened and Faramir himself stepped out, paler and thinner than when they had last seen him but blessedly _whole_ , and Lothíriel leapt forward to hug him. He held her just as tightly, smiling at his aunt.

“Calm yourself, cousin, I am well.”

“ _Are_ you?” Nilaruna questioned, and a shadow flashed over his expression as he glanced behind him into the hall.

“Perhaps we can have this meeting elsewhere. Besides, surely business can wait a little; there is someone I would have you meet first.” And although, now diverted, they pestered him with questions, he only smiled and refused to say any more, instead sending a runner to Húrin and leading them to the Houses of Healing.

Lothíriel dabbed discreetly at her eyes with a handkerchief as they walked, and brightened as they approached the Houses of Healing; she had been there a few times after childhood scrapes and had generally fond memories of the austere buildings, with their little gardens full of fresh healing herbs, the general scent of ointment which, no matter what mixtures were actually being used, smelt predominantly of wintergreen, and the healers themselves; besides which, she had taken an interest in healing herblore over the past few years and helped in Dol Amroth’s Healing Houses. As they entered, however, she swallowed. Wounded soldiers lay recovering on cots, and as they passed a healer changing a man’s dressings, she could smell the blood and the sharp sour smell of infections. Her mother squeezed her hand and they hastened their pace to a little eastern wing.

“Éowyn?” Faramir called, knocking on a door, and Lothíriel sucked her breath in sharply at the name. The door opened and a stunningly beautiful woman stepped out, tall and slender in a simple unornamented white gown, blonde hair tumbling freely to her waist; she embraced Faramir with a joyful laugh and kissed his cheek, and Lothíriel was fairly certain that her jaw had dropped. Nilaruna cleared her throat, and Faramir disentangled himself with a blush staining his cheeks.

“Éowyn, I would like you to meet my aunt and cousin – Princess Nilaruna and Princess Lothíriel, of Dol Amroth. Aunt Nila, I –” and here he ducked his head bashfully for a moment, “ – I have asked Éowyn to marry me.”

Éowyn had turned to regard them with grey eyes that widened in clear confusion and surprise for a moment, before she recovered herself and dropped into a graceful curtsey. “I am very pleased to meet you.”

“You are the one who slew the Witch-King!” Lothíriel exclaimed, ignoring her mother’s pinch to her elbow.

“Yes,” Éowyn agreed, though she did not seem overly pleased or proud to be reminded of that.

Nilaruna swept forward to take Éowyn’s hands. “Well met, Éowyn. I am overjoyed to know that my nephew has found love, and with such a lovely lady.”

Éowyn’s smile now was bashful, matching Faramir’s. “Faramir and I usually walk in the gardens at this time of day. Will you join us?”

“We would be honoured.”

As the little group moved towards the gardens, however, Faramir stopped with a frown. “My love,” he addressed Éowyn, and Lothíriel fought back a little giggle at the tiny smiles that neither of them could hold back at the endearment, “I thought your brother would be coming to see you, today.”

“I had nearly forgotten! Has he sent you any word?”

“No, but surely he would have sent word to his sister! Does he know…?” Faramir looked decidedly nervous now, and this time Lothíriel did giggle; Nilaruna sent her a quelling look, but it was undercut by her own clear amusement. She turned to her nephew.

“Do you mean to tell me you have gone and gotten engaged without her family even knowing, Faramir? You have always been so cautious!”

“I – well, I was grievously wounded, and we spent much time together here, and – we were at war with the Shadow, and I wanted – ”

Lothíriel gave up on holding her giggles in and even her mother was trying not to laugh. Éowyn’s eyes were glinting in amusement, but there was something uncertain in her mien as she said in a too-light voice, “Will Gondor then not take well to their Steward being carried off by a wild shieldmaiden of the North?”

Sober now, Nilaruna reached out to take her hand and pressed it. “Probably better than they took their Prince marrying a barbarian woman from the South, if that helps.”

“I do not think you will have much more to fear than some snide whispers, and your reputation may even shield you from those. You are one of Gondor’s saviours,” Lothíriel added, moved to pity. At the same time she could not help but feel a small kernel of resentment, though she tried to smother it. What did Éowyn have to fear, tall and slender and pale and beautiful as she was? Slayer of the Witch-King? Even if the court disdained her as a barbarian shieldmaiden, they would be too wary to say anything to her face. And her fair skin would shield her from the sort of thing Lothíriel herself was used to hearing.

She chided herself; she owed Éowyn more kindness as a soon-to-be cousin.

A healer hastened over just then, looking rather frantic. “Lady Éowyn,” she called, “Your brother is here.”

Éowyn blanched slightly as she turned, but there was also excitement in her eyes. “Éomer!”

Lothíriel turned, and felt blood rush to her cheeks at her first sight of King Éomer.

Éowyn was already moving towards him; Éomer was tall, as tall as her own father, and broad, with an intense countenance that might perhaps be grim if it was not currently full of joy and relief as he caught his sister up in an embrace. They stood thus for a long moment, fair hair mingling as they held on to each other and reassured themselves of each other’s wholeness.

As they finally broke apart, Éomer gripped his sister’s shoulders and examined her face. “I thought all was lost when I found you on the field.” His voice was deep to suit his frame.

“I am well, Éomer,” Éowyn promised.

“You look it.” Grief flashed over his face briefly before he smiled again. “I have not seen you so joyful since...” He shook his head. “Since we were children.”

At that, Éowyn flushed a little and drew back. “I am full of joy, as I have not been in some time. Éomer, there is someone I want you to meet.”

His brows drew together suspiciously as he finally turned and looked at the others; his gaze flickered over Lothíriel and her mother, pausing briefly in recognition, and then Faramir bowed slightly.

“You are Boromir’s brother, are you not?”

Faramir nodded. “I am Faramir, Steward of this city.”

“And we wish to marry,” added Éowyn.

Éomer looked between them for a long moment, expression unreadable, and Lothíriel tensed. Finally, he spoke. “I came here fearing that my sister would still lie wounded and grieving, or be whole in body but still pale and unhappy. But I find her wholly healed and happier than I have seen her since long before the War. If that is your doing, Steward, you have my blessing.”

Éowyn and Faramir broke into huge smiles, and Faramir moved forward to clasp Éomer’s arm, which he allowed after a moment of hesitation. “And I am sorry for your losses,” he added, a little awkwardly.

Faramir nodded, sobering. “As I am for yours.”

The three of them stood in silence for a moment, and Lothíriel again felt guilty that her own family had come out unscathed when so many others had lost so much, and relieved that she did not have to feel such pain, and guilty again for such relief. Then her stomach fluttered as Éomer turned towards them, giving them both a smile.

“Princess Nilaruna?” he addressed her mother. “Imrahil has said much of you, and of Princess Lothíriel.”

Nilaruna dropped into a curtsey, and Lothíriel did the same. “As he has of you, your Majesty. Gondor owes you much.”

Éomer looked briefly uncomfortable, though whether it was at such praise or at being addressed as a King, Lothíriel was unsure. “We were only honouring our Oath.”

Éowyn took his hand then. “Uncle and Théodred would be proud,” she murmured. “And our parents.”

“Come,” Nilaruna whispered in Lothíriel’s ear. “Let us leave them alone.”

Faramir joined them as they slipped out, looking relieved. As they slipped away to another garden, where Húrin waited for them with other Citadel staff and a pile of ledgers, he exhaled.

“Well. Shall we start the planning?”

“Do not think you won’t be hearing more from your uncle, my lad,” Nilaruna warned smilingly, before they set to work.

As she looked through ledgers of resources and books of historical ceremony, however, Lothíriel kept finding herself distracted by the memory of Éomer’s smile.

* * *

It was a surprisingly warm day, and Lothíriel was restless; she had spent the past week cloistered in rooms with Húrin and his wife, her mother, and Faramir, speaking with seamstresses and cooks and planning a menu and looking at decorations and organising a small army of servants. In Dol Amroth she was accustomed to riding along the shore or up the hills most mornings, and swimming just off the shore; within the walls of Minas Tirith, however, she could do neither, and she was chafing at having to stay indoors.

“ _Mawat_ ,” she pled her case over breakfast, “may I have a rest today? I will come and join you after lunch, but I would really like to go for a walk, perhaps to one of the city gardens.”

Nilaruna regarded her daughter over the rim of her teacup. “Very well. You have been working hard. But would you consider visiting Éowyn instead?”

“Éowyn?” Lothíriel shrugged. “I suppose. Why? Is there something you wish us to discuss?”

Nilaruna hummed in thought. “Not particularly. But she strikes me as sad and lonely, despite all the joy of new love. I think she could do with some company. Besides, she will be family soon.”

“Alright. I do not know what I can say to the Slayer of the Witch-King, but I will try.” Lothíriel sat up straighter and began to hurriedly finish her porridge, eager to be off.

“Slow down,” Nilaruna reminded her, amused. “And remember to take two of the Knights with you.”

“Yes, _mawat_ ,” Lothíriel sighed.

As they both readied themselves to leave afterwards, Nilaruna to the Citadel and Lothíriel to the Houses of Healing, the older Princess of Dol Amroth reached out to tilt her daughter’s chin up, studying her.

“Sometimes I forget how grown you are,” she said softly.

“I know.” Lothíriel had meant for her tone to be similarly gentle, but it came out sounding rather pert. Her mother only laughed.

“Hurry along now.”

As they left the house, Lothíriel had to shield her eyes; those first few moments emerging into Minas Tirith, the sun reflecting off the white stone, were always blinding. She set off towards the Houses of Healing, two Swan Knights marching along behind her; they, too, were familiar with Minas Tirith, and waited outside as she went in to meet Éowyn.

“Princess Lothíriel,” Éowyn greeted with some surprise, rising from the couch where she was studying a book and dropping into a curtsey. “Good morning. What brings you here?”

Lothíriel smiled at her, waving the gesture away. “You need not bother with such formalities, Éowyn; we will soon be family. I have been granted a respite from helping with the coronation, and I thought I might come and talk to you, and perhaps show you around Minas Tirith?”

Éowyn beamed at her. “I would like that; I have seen little of it thus far. It is kind of you to think of me.”

“The suggestion was my mother’s,” Lothíriel admitted, her smile sliding into an abashed grin. “But I do look forward to knowing you better.”

Éowyn was clearly taken aback by the Swan Knights waiting for them outside, but accepted it with equanimity. “Where are we going?”

“I thought I might show you the Garden of Egalmoth, and we could have lunch? The food here in the Healing Houses is nutritious, but hardly what I would call flavourful.”

“It has been rather plain,” Éowyn agreed distractedly, shading her eyes as she looked around. She had looked down from the high walls with Faramir, true, but this was her first time truly being in the City, and it was new and strange and so alien compared to Meduseld; she did not like the high close walls, and was uncomfortable at the sense of loss and war that still lingered.

Lothíriel led the little party down through Minas Tirith’s narrow stairs and ramps to the Third Circle, down narrow paths to an out-of-the-way corner, deserted but for a pair of grubby children running past each other and playing some game.

“This is a garden?” Éowyn asked, a little dubiously. Lothíriel grinned at her, leading them up a short flight of stairs. As they ascended Éowyn saw that their path led down again into a little hidden garden, cut right into the rock like an Elven grotto, and her breath caught. It was dim and shadowed and cool after the hot stone streets of the city, with mossy walls and soft grass and flowers underfoot, and high windows cut into the ceiling and walls to allow fresh air and golden sunlight to filter in. There was a little bubbling pool to one side, and a tall statue in the centre.

“The Statue of Egalmoth, one of the Stewards,” Lothíriel told her. “Oh! Lebadar!”

An old man approached them, wearing grubby earth-stained clothing and a straw hat and looking very unlike the fine Gondorian men and women they had passed thus far. “Why, is it Princess Lothíriel? How you have grown!”

She smiled up at him. “Hello, Lebadar. I hope you will not mind that I brought a friend.”

“If your friend is as happy to pull weeds as you, I will allow it,” he laughed, though his gaze as it rested on Éowyn was sharp. _Of course_ , she reflected, _he knows me. There will not be any other Rohirric woman in the City._ The reminder of the glory she had won, though, brought little joy, and she made herself focus on the Princess.

“I used to come here often as a child, looking for some quiet corner, and Lebadar decided that if I was going to hang around asking him about plants I might as well help him weed,” Lothíriel chattered. “It is a little wild, not so well-tended as the fine houses’ gardens on the upper circles, but I like it.”

“I can see why.” There was a certain natural charm to the place, with flowering weeds valiantly and defiantly sprouting around the statue and in the corners, and by the rocks around the pool; it was very unlike the neatly manicured gardens full of medicinal herbs in the Houses of Healing. “Do you like gardening then, Lothíriel?”

Lothíriel was waving to Lebadar, who was just leaving. “He tends to most of the hidden gardens around the City practically alone,” she explained, turning back to Éowyn and leading the other woman to sit down on a soft grassy patch by the statue. “And I like plants, I suppose. I like natural history in general. Plants and flowers and forests and rocks, they all fascinate me. And you, Éowyn? I saw that you had a book on herblore, earlier.”

“I am a novice,” Éowyn responded, slightly uncomfortable with having to explain it. For so long now she would have said that fighting brought her joy, that she loved the sharpness of her sword and the swiftness of her arrows, but now in her mind’s eye she could still see her uncle and the other Rohirrim as they lay on the fields of the Pelennor, and the Dwimmerlaik she had fought. And yet, while she had vowed to Faramir that she would be a shieldmaiden no longer, she was now uncertain about the idea of simply giving up her sword.

Lothíriel watched the different expressions flit across her companion’s face, and wished for her mother; Nilaruna always knew how to read people, and what to say to put them at ease. She cast around for a different topic, wondering what to say to a woman who had been through war.

“You and Éomer seem very close,” she blurted out. “I have three brothers myself, and I was very glad to see them all unhurt.”

At that Éowyn seemed to shake off whatever shadow had been clouding her countenance, and smiled. “Three brothers? And I used to complain about just the one! What are they like?”

“Well, Elphir is the oldest, and he is very like my father. He is very kind and learned, though Erchirion and Faramir both say he simply got over his troublesome teenage years before I was born. He is wed now, and he and his wife Iorissel have a lovely boy – my little nephew, Alphros – and another on the way.”

“Are they here?” There were few babies in Meduseld, and while Éowyn did not yet know how she felt about the prospect of motherhood, the thought of meeting an infant relative of Faramir’s seemed charming.

“No, Iorissel is pregnant and was feeling quite ill, so she and Alphros have stayed behind with my aunt Ivriniel for now. They might join us soon, though, depending on how long we stay after the coronation – I am not sure about that.” She frowned slightly.

“Yes,” Éowyn said thoughtfully, “Éomer does not seem sure either. It seems as though Aragorn has some plan he is not sharing. But our own plans involve returning as soon as we can, after the coronation; we will return later for my uncle.” She tried to imagine Théoden lying in a cold stone crypt instead of in a simbelmynë-covered mound, and bit her lip against the rising grief. “I am sorry, Lothíriel. I am not very good company today, I am afraid.”

Lothíriel reached across their laps to press her hand. “Quite alright,” she smiled. “We can sit here quietly for a while.”

* * *

They emerged from the garden when their bellies began to rumble, wearing flower garlands that they had twined in companionable silence. Éowyn blinked for a moment, squinting against the noonday sun.

“Here.” Lothíriel removed her hat and gave it to Éowyn.

“Thank you. I am afraid I did not really bring clothes suitable to the life of a lady in Gondor.”

“It is of no consequence. Gondor owes Rohan a debt; the least I can do is lend you a hat!”

Éowyn laughed, finding she was more able now to bear such jokes. “Where did you say we were eating?”

“Usually we would host you in our home or in Faramir’s home for a formal luncheon,” Lothíriel tucked a curl behind her ear and adjusted her flower garland, “but my mother and I have spent the past two days conferring with the best cooks in the Citadel, tasting samples and sorting out menus for the coronation, and I am heartily sick of all those pastries and sweets and fancy bites and crave something hearty and spiced. And we have both been indoors too long, I think. Have you ever tried Haradrim food?”

As Éowyn opened her mouth to answer, a passing woman, dressed richly and carrying a little parasol to shield herself from the sun, laughed rather snidely and cut in, “Well, well, Lothíriel, this is a time of wonders indeed – _you_ are sick of food! Keep it up, and perhaps your dresses will not be so strained.”

Éowyn gaped for a moment, too shocked to respond. Lothíriel spun around, glaring at the woman, and hissed, “The only thing I am straining against, Gwilwileth, is your presence; a minute spent with you is a minute too many. Good day.”

Turning back around, she marched forward determinedly; as she was shorter than Éowyn and the Knights, however, it was easy to keep up.

“What _was_ that?” Éowyn exclaimed. “How can someone speak thus to you?”

Lothíriel shrugged, her face caught between anger and resignation. “That is the price I pay for speaking of food publicly.”

Éowyn glanced back at the woman, frowning at her and at the two uncomfortable-looking Swan Knights who still stood silently close by. “She shall pay more than that if I see her again.”

“You will see her again and she will say worse, and so will others.” Lothíriel looked tired now. “Or perhaps they will not, not when they realise they are in your presence. We shall see.”

“But you are a Princess of this country.” Éowyn frowned at Lothíriel. “And I will admit I was surprised when I saw you, for you are not what I was expecting. But you are beautiful nonetheless, and kind, and you have royal bearing; none could look at you and doubt your lineage. Why would anyone treat you thusly? Why do you allow it?”

“This is Gondor, Éowyn,” sighed Lothíriel. “One deviation from the norm might be tolerated – there are others here who are not so thin either, and others with just enough foreign ancestry as to look _exotic_ – but two? To be both fat and dark, to be so obviously foreign, is to commit a crime against their sensibilities. My mother put up with this when she came to this land, and it worsened when she married my father. My brothers also hear it, but they are fine warriors and to marry them would elevate one to royalty, so it has lessened over the years. But I? I can shoot a bow, but I am no shieldmaiden. I have three brothers and a nephew already to ascend the throne before me, and so would be a poor prize for an ambitious lord. I do not meet Gondorian standards of beauty, but my mother assures me I would be a beauty in Harad, though they would distrust my foreign parentage.” This last was said in a sing-song manner, as though quoting her mother. “It is a fine line to walk, taking pride in my heritage while hearing from both sides that I am lesser because of it, taking pride in myself while being made to conform to what Minas Tirith expects of me.”

Éowyn did not know what to say for a long moment; it seemed to her that she knew, now, something of what Aragorn must have felt when he had beheld her own pain. “I wish I could take this pain from you, but I do not know how,” she finally said. “But know, Lothíriel, that you would be welcome in Rohan. We are not so quick to judge looks there.”

Lothíriel broke into a small smile, linking her arm through Éowyn’s and squeezing the taller woman’s hand. “I would like to visit Rohan. And I must apologise, I did not mean to burden you thus with my own inconsequential sorrows.”

Éowyn smiled back. “They are not inconsequential. But come, I am eager to try this Haradrim food you have promised me.”

Laughing, Lothíriel nodded and tugged her arm, moving to a staircase. “I am not sure if you will come to regret that or not.”

* * *

Elioril cinched the bodice tight, pausing as Lothíriel gasped. “I am sorry, Princess, should I relax it?”

“No, leave it. I do not expect to eat much, anyway; I am too nervous, and too tired.”

Elioril tied the lacing and tucked the cord away, and began to tug and tweak the gown so that it fell into place perfectly. “I thought I helped you get ready for bed at a sensible hour last night.”

“I could not sleep. I am so _nervous_ , Elioril; a coronation is nothing like the events at home. I know my mother did most of the work but I keep fearing that something that _I_ supervised will go wrong and King Elessar will call me out.”

“You will be fine, Princess. Everything will go smoothly. And even if it doesn’t, I dare say nobody will remember a crooked flower vase or a musician dropping a note or some slightly flattened pastries, not with the return of the King!”

Lothíriel smiled at her friend. “Thank you. I will try to remember that.”

As Elioril fastened her overdress and picked up the jewellery she had laid out earlier, Lothíriel remembered her uncle Denethor expecting her to help with social events for the court of Minas Tirith, and the gravely disappointed yet unsurprised look whenever something had gone wrong, and reminded herself that from all she knew of King Elessar, he was kind and forgiving.

“He is not wed yet, is he?” Elioril broke into her musing.

“No, why?”

“Well.” Elioril fastened a pearl necklace around her neck. “He will need a Queen, and you are an unwed Princess of Dol Amroth.”

Lothíriel tried to imagine it and shuddered. “Ada says the King is older than himself! And I would not want to be Queen of Gondor. I cannot imagine spending my life dealing with the court of Minas Tirith. No, he will find some fair flower of Gondorian womanhood who looks the part, and I will return to Dol Amroth.”

“Hmm.” Elioril said nothing more, however, as she gently placed Lothíriel’s diadem on her head. “There. Beautiful.”

Lothíriel looked over herself in the mirror. Her overdress was of fine brocade dyed Dol Amroth sea-blue, over a darker indigo gown, cinched at the waist with a red and gold girdle; the intense colours looked good against her dusky skin, though she sighed a little at the soft bulge over her girdle. As an unwed maiden, her long dark hair flowed freely down her back, braided back at her temples and crowned with the simple, delicate silver and pearl diadem worn by Princesses of Dol Amroth. Her face looked a little drawn, however, from the restless night, but she supposed there was nothing to be done now.

“Thank you.”

Elioril curtseyed and left through her side door, and Lothíriel went down to meet with her family.

[ ](https://imgur.com/Mq9hYG2)

* * *

The coronation ceremony itself went smoothly, though everyone involved had a moment of heart-stopping tension when King Elessar gave the crown back, before he requested the Ring-bearer and Mithrandir.

Éomer stepped into Merethrond with his sister and his men, feeling uncomfortable in such stately pomp and grandeur. Meduseld was warm and cosy and bright during such celebrations, but even with all the lights and flowers and rich silk banners decking the hall, the white stone still seemed cold to him.

Éothain nudged him. “It is Imrahil and his family! We shall finally meet his lovely wife.”

Indeed, Imrahil was approaching with Nilaruna on his arm; behind him came Erchirion and Lothíriel. “Éomer!”

Éomer stepped forward to clasp his arm, and bowed to the Princesses. Nilaruna was a tall, striking woman with a stately figure, looking resplendent in blue and gold, and just as composed as she had been in the Houses of Healing. There was a softness to her face and figure which her children had inherited, and a regal presence to rival Imrahil’s own.

“Good evening, King Éomer,” she greeted him. “How are you finding the celebrations so far?”

“Very grand,” he answered truthfully.

“We will be going hunting two days hence, when we have recovered,” Erchirion broke in. “You should come with us, you and your men.”

As Éomer turned to the younger Prince, he found his attention arrested by Lothíriel, who had just lightly embraced Éowyn – when had they become such friends? – and was now watching him with dark, curious eyes. He had been too distracted by Éowyn in the Houses of Healing to pay Lothíriel much attention, but now he found himself both drawn to her and concerned, for she looked tired. With some effort, he focused on Erchirion, missing the glance Imrahil exchanged with his wife.

“I would very much like that,” he answered truthfully, Éothain nodding beside him.

“Forgive my son, Lady Éowyn – you are of course also invited, and Faramir will be there,” Nilaruna added. “Come, how have you been?”

As Éothain engaged Erchirion in conversation about what sort of game was found in Gondor, Éomer approached Lothíriel. “Are you well, Princess?”

To his surprise, she frowned at him. “Yes. Why?”

Too late, he remembered that one was probably not meant to start a conversation with a woman by implying that they looked tired or ill, but had no idea how to extricate himself from this. “I apologise, I meant no insult.”

Her frown deepened for a moment before she visibly checked herself. “I am a little tired, that is all, but otherwise in good health.” There was still an edge to her voice as she said ‘good health’ – _Béma_! Could one not enquire after the health of Gondorian noblewomen without causing offence?

He tried to think of some other light pleasantry, but she then asked, “And you? How are you finding Minas Tirith thus far?”

“Very grand,” he found himself repeating, and sought for something to add, something pleasant to say about Gondor to its princess. “The city seems old and yet lovely and proud. I saw it once as a child, and it has since gained some war-wounds, but there is much gaiety as well with Aragorn’s – pardon me, Elessar’s return.”

“Yes,” she agreed, surveying him with what seemed to be renewed interest. “I have felt that too. It is both mourning and celebrating. When did you see it as a child?”

Éomer cast his mind back in thought. “I do not remember the exact year – I would have been no more than twelve, but I was allowed to accompany my cousin Théodred here once on a diplomatic visit. I met Boromir then, and had a glimpse of Lord Denethor, but I did not see Faramir.”

Grief flickered over Lothíriel’s face, but she schooled her emotions quickly. “Yes, I suppose Faramir was on his first patrols then. Boromir mentioned Théodred sometimes, I think they were good friends.”

“They were,” Éomer agreed. He considered mentioning that he had met Boromir, when the captain of Gondor had passed through Rohan on his way to Rivendell, but decided against it; why burden Lothíriel with such a memory?

“They would have enjoyed tonight, I think,” Lothíriel added pensively. “Well, Boromir would have gotten bored eventually, but he would have liked to see Minas Tirith so festive, and the return of the King at the end of the war.”

Éomer remembered his cousin laughing with his uncle at feasts in Meduseld, holding court with the guests and whirling around the dance floor with the women. “Théodred was always more comfortable at such courtly events than I; he would certainly have enjoyed this, though it is a little more sedate than celebrations back in the Mark.” Instantly he could have bitten his tongue, for such a criticism to the festivities she had likely helped with would hardly go over well.

Indeed Lothíriel raised an eyebrow at him, frowning slightly. “I am sorry our festivities do not meet with your standards, King Éomer, but I hope you will be able to enjoy them regardless.”

“I did not mean it that way, I am sorry – ”

But Aragorn had entered now and it was the signal for the others to file to their seats, and so Éomer had to subside as Lothíriel curtseyed stiffly and left; Imrahil had a place of honour at the high table, where Aragorn was seated along with the rest of the Company of the Ring, Faramir, Éowyn, and Éomer himself, but his wife and children went to a table just below the dais. Feeling out of sorts and sore, Éomer went to his own seat and waited as speeches were given. For Aragorn’s sake, he put on a cheerful face as he spoke with Gimli over delicate creamy soup and fresh salad and little pastry bites; Gimli was grumbling about the lack of meat, and Éomer could commiserate. Eventually they brought out dressed roast birds and stewed game meats enough that Éomer was satiated, however. He glanced down the table, searching out his sister, and watched her for a moment. For the past year or so Éowyn had picked at her food, pale and quiet; now she laughed, merry and full of life, and bent close to Faramir and spoke with him, and ate with a healthy appetite, and at the sight he was moved to smile again.

Gimli had followed his line of sight, and now made a small approving sound. “It does my heart good to see her so joyful.”

“As it does mine, Master Dwarf. Even as I grieve that soon I must also lose her to Gondor.”

The Dwarf studied him for a moment. “She must be grieving having to leave you and her home too. But it might ease her heart if you had a queen to order Meduseld in her stead.”

“I am afraid that I cannot ease her heart, then. There is no fair Rohirric maiden waiting for me.”

On Gimli’s other side, Legolas leaned forward. “All day I have heard Gondorian ladies speak excitedly about their handsome, _unwed_ new King, and I fear Aragorn will have his hands full fending them off! But I know they will be disappointed – ” at Éomer’s surprised, curious look he only smiled knowingly, “- and then they might move on to the other subject on their tongues: the equally handsome, equally unwed King of Rohan. Were you of a mind to find a wife, Éomer, I suspect you will find many eager candidates here.”

Éomer glanced around the hall, at the sea of fair dark-haired beauties. “I am sure they are all lovely. But I am in no mood for romance; I wish only to return to the Mark as soon as possible, for there is much work to be done.”

Legolas and Gimli both seemed unhappy at his words. “We won the war, Éomer. Everyone else is celebrating and seeking what joy may be found, and we only wish the same for you,” Legolas said softly.

“And what of you? Is there a fair Elven maid waiting for you in the Woodland Realm, or will some lucky Gondorian girl have her head turned by an Elf?” Éomer had only meant to embarrass Legolas into leaving the subject be, but to his surprise Legolas and Gimli only exchanged glances and clasped hands briefly.

“I have found all the joy I could ever wish for,” Gimli murmured, and Éomer blinked. Well. Love was strange, certainly; he could think of no odder bedfellows, but he supposed that if they were happy, that was all that mattered. And they certainly seemed happy, if the looks they gave each other then were any indication; he hurriedly turned back to his plate of delicate little chicken dumplings, hoping the matter was forgotten.

There was dancing, between the dessert courses, but he did not know the lilting tunes that the musicians played. Éowyn, however, pled for a dance, and he could not refuse her.

“This one is simple enough, Lothíriel says,” she informed him. True enough, Lothíriel stood nearby on Erchirion’s arm.

“It is slow enough, and meant for couples; you can simply follow what we do, and nobody will notice if you are a beat too slow.” Lothíriel smiled then, as if to reassure him; her cheeks dimpled, and he was struck with the entirely nonsensical notion that it would be no hardship to follow her.

“Éomer?”

Shaking his head, he turned to hold his sister’s hand as Erchirion did Lothíriel’s. As the beat struck, Lothíriel and Erchirion began moving in a sort of slow skipping step; first in one direction, and then the other, and Éomer focused on following them. They paused suddenly, and he and Éowyn had to abruptly draw up short in order to avoid crashing into them; Éowyn met his gaze as he stood still and led her to skip around him in a circle, and they found themselves giggling as they had not done in a long time, as they had done as children when getting into mischief at Aldburg.

“I have never felt so at peace, Éomer,” Éowyn confessed softly as they resumed the skipping steps together. “It is not just Faramir. I think… I have won renown in battle now, and I have learnt that it is not what I truly want.”

“What do you want then, Éowyn?”

She thought for a moment, as the dance paused again and this time Éomer found himself having to take skipping motions to move around her in a circle. He felt silly, but none of the other dancers seemed uncomfortable in any way, though Erchirion grinned at him.

“Peace,” Éowyn finally said. “Growth. Master Meriadoc has told me how the _holbytlan_ value good tilled earth and green growing things, and the peace to be found therein, and I think I might follow their example; I want to learn about healing herbs, and grow them, and help others. And be Faramir’s wife, and build a life with him.” Her pale cheeks flushed slightly as she added that last wish, but she still smiled at him.

“Will you then be a shieldmaiden no longer?” For all Éomer had worried about his sister and tried to dissuade her from her former path, he had always taken pride in her skills, and it felt strange now to imagine a world in which she did not wield a sword in the face of all dissent.

She frowned slightly. “I do not know. I no longer wish to wage war. But there was another peace of a different sort, in mastering weapons and training hard, and I do not know if I wish to give that up altogether.”

“Well, good Master Meriadoc has managed to be a lover of plants – and food – and a warrior both, despite his stature. I do not see why you too cannot do both.”

She beamed up at him, and he smiled back at her, feeling thankful again that despite all that had been lost to the War of the Ring, he still had her – at least, until she wed.

“I will always be your sister, Éomer,” she said then, as if she could read his worries on his face. “No matter whom I wed or where I live.”

Lothíriel glanced back then, and at the soft looks on Éomer and Éowyn’s faces, she felt almost as if she were intruding.

“He was so worried about her, though he would not speak of it,” Erchirion commented to her. “Éomer, I mean. I am glad that she is well, for it has made him so much lighter.”

“Yes,” she replied. “Éowyn and I spoke the other day, and they have lost much; I am glad they still have each other. And that he is not angry with Faramir!”

They shared a moment of amusement over that, before Erchirion sobered. “He may seem grim, Thíri, but he is a good man, and a very doughty warrior.”

Lothíriel gave her brother an odd look. “Yes, I do not doubt it. Why are you so keen on singing his praises to me?”

Erchirion shrugged. “He has become a good friend to us and to Ada, and you will probably see a great deal more of him before he leaves.”

Lothíriel glanced back at Éomer again, and did not know if she was excited or nervous at that prospect; she certainly thought him attractive, and that in itself was daunting, but she also did not think anything could come of it. How could it? She was only his sister’s friend, and his friend Imrahil’s daughter; she was no Gondorian beauty, or a warrior like Éowyn. Though perhaps she had been too harsh with him earlier, in thinking that he meant to make a veiled comment about her health and weight as so many Gondorians did; looking at him now, she did not think him capable of such veiled insult. Like Éowyn, he was probably far more blunt, and the idea was refreshing.

“Will you join us for the hunt?” Erchirion asked her. She bit her lip in thought, and nodded. Perhaps she could at least try to be his friend. And if nothing else, she would have Éowyn’s company.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Honestly, while rereading this part of LotR I couldn't help but pity everyone in Minas Tirith who has to deal with Aragorn's dramatics. :P First he doesn't return to the city until the coronation (though in the next chapter we will see that he _did_ have meetings with Council members and Faramir and went over various legislative things, he just remained outside the city walls), and then he's extremely mysterious about 'a day coming he's excited for', until Arwen and co show up on Midsummer's Eve for the wedding. Presumably all the people who have to work to prepare for events like a coronation and a royal wedding were aware of it in time and Frodo and Sam were just oblivious, but the narrative still makes it seem like the wider populace of Minas Tirith was also surprised by the wedding.


End file.
